Epilogue. There will be no more. Do not even ask.

When the final chapter emerged, it emerged in a great spurt, fuelled by upset and frustration. What was supposed to be a simple romp in 2010 turned into a nightmarish pit, only made worse by the legions of fans and occasional nitpicker, not to mention too many worldbuilding ideas.

If anyone wants to explore the twin notions of portals opening up between the Rowlingverse and the Falloutverse (or Nirn), or that of the Malfoy ambition overcoming their traditional racism, yeah, whatever, go right ahead.

But of course plenty of you want to know what happens next. Well, all right. Damn you all.

Harry and Ra'jirra returned to Potter Manor to do two things: collect his parents' portrait, and open yet another portal to Nirn in general and Black Plateau in particular. A third thing, namely "a proper welcome home feast for Lord Harryjames and his Rajerry", turned out to be non-negotiable.

En route he wowed staff and students at the Arcane University with the few simple tricks he learned as a First Year. Admittedly they weren't impressed by what he'd been able to learn in Defence Against the Dark Arts, but that's all Quirrell's fault.

The following two months he spent at Faregyl with his wand and broom mostly in his trunk. Hedwig liked the Great Forest. He liked being a normal boy again. As he returned to Earth-2 and Potter Manor, Dumbledore, by invitation, came to Nirn for the first time by the Hogsmeade portal.

Ra'jirra took him to see what Meridia did to the remnants of Voldemort's soul. Neither of them ever spoke of what the Daedric Prince did, except to affirm that he would never return again.

But while the symptom was gone, the disease remained; there were still plenty of powerful families who subscribed to the quaint notion of "blood purity". But not Malfoy. No longer Malfoy. His breakdown had changed his viewpoint permanently, and this was reflected in the distance that many once friendly houses began keeping from them.

Fudge found himself being steered towards reversals of many long-standing policies, with Umbridge becoming the voice of prejudice. Over the next thirty years, the Ministry of Magic began catching up with the rest of the wizarding world, funding research into a cure for lycanthropy, instituting a magical pre-school for families with magical children, and legalising the remarkable array of magical inventions common in the rest of the world which previous administrations had banned for being, well, foreign muck.

Many of the houses that had become Death Eaters found themselves rallying around a firebrand claiming, like Voldemort had, "Magic Is Might". When they were eventually routed, Peter Pettigrew was finally brought to justice. He didn't even survive his first night in Azkaban before having his soul sucked out. It turned out that the dementors apparently had some rudimentary intelligence, and understood that Sirius Black was innocent.

The basilisk is still transfixed in the Chamber of Secrets.

Harry, Draco and Neville became good friends, Hermione and Ron slightly less so. Actually, thanks to a Christmas present to Ron of a book on aerobatics, Ron more or less won Oliver Wood over with his ideas for novel Quidditch strategies. It soon became one of Gryffindor's worst-kept secrets that while Wood was the captain, Weasley was the tactician. Fairly quickly Gryffindor became the team nobody wanted to play – because you'd most likely lose, Potter or no Potter.

Later, Ronald Weasley would find himself receiving some very interesting owl post, and the systematic triumph of England in the 1994 Quidditch World Cup soon made it clear where Ron's career would take him. Sadly, his outreach to the Chudley Cannons, his favourite and worst-performing team, were turned down, much to his annoyance. For forty years he would work for the All-England quidditch team as lead strategist, before being tapped for a plum job in the Department of Magical Sports and Games.

Hermione excelled at her studies and it was no surprise when she eventually landed a research lead position in Parkinson-Malfoy Industries.

All of this was against the backdrop of the British Government's CASE AVALON scenarios. As Ra'jirra had surmised, they were attempting to force a positive one before the balloon went up, and they were aided by not entirely surprising allies: Paul E. Parkinson and Lord Malfoy. Apparently Parkinson had reached out to Malfoy, and that latter had been so impressed, he had agreed to associate himself with that businessman. This reached the ears of Lady Thatcher, and pretty soon the traditional lifestyles of the British witch and wizard found themselves under threat (as the traditionalists and blood purists put it.)

The first cracks came with the arrival of a new line of wizarding wireless sets, as well as the first wizarding television programming. The notion of being able to see what you were listening to was so remarkable, noone in the Ministry noticed something until it was too late: by flipping a small switch in the back, one could also tune into mundane radio and television transmissions. All of a sudden, wizarding Britain was exposed to "muggledom" in spades.

It was inevitable that there would be a backlash, rather like Britain's infamous detector vans but more violent. The Ministry found themselves having to move against such cultural purists, in order to preserve law and order. In doing so, Minister Fudge was more than a little chuffed to realise he was rising in the polls, even though his Senior Under-Secretary was getting more and more wound up about "muggle pollution".

Malfoy successfully lobbied for more funding for his magical television station, under the guise of promoting British wizarding culture. More importantly, he found that he was becoming fabulously wealthy thanks to royalties on the methods of making magical televisions and broadcasting. There was a slight side-effect in that people kept trying to assassinate his family. He was a little preoccupied with that.

Oh – when CASE AVALON BLUE finally ran its course, he was knighted for services to the British wizarding community, not that anyone cares.

While all this was going on, things on Nirn weren't going all that well. Black Plateau was being targeted by the Thalmor, on the grounds that... well... racism. Which when you're one of that particular syndicate of goldskin dickheads is all the reason you need.

Ra'jirra found himself targeted, and Faregyl started to resemble a Legion outpost. Nobody was happy about that, except for travellers who reported that the Green Road to Bravil had never been safer.

Several Thalmor operatives found themselves caught out on Earth-1, thanks to their failure to realise that the Empire was actually pulling out of that realm while the Americans from Earth-2 were moving in. The military forces on Earth-1 were less than impressed with the agents' attempts to disrupt operations or smuggle weaponry, especially old nuclear warheads and acted accordingly. For some reason the Empire was loath to complain. For the same reason Ra'jirra just sniggered whenever those incidents came up.

Something that made Ra'jirra, and for that matter the rest of the Imperial Council, frown, was the agitation of Earth-2 representatives from the United States to adopt their democratic principles. Via the Institute for Technological Philosophy, the Empire made vague assurances that they would do so – eventually – once they knew how to avoid the observed pitfalls. For some reason the United States took offence. Then again, as far as the Empire was concerned, their interest in Earth-1 had run its course, aside from a small cadre of mages who were teaching Tamrielic magical styles to interested parties and performing research.

Regardless, the Empire began to flourish like never before, thanks to a certain amount of investment in steam railways and improved communications systems – including the new wizarding televisions with the built-in Floo feature, meaning that one could sit comfortably and converse without needing one's head stuck in a magic fire.

Thirty years later, Ra'jirra died of old age. Lord Harry Potter, attending his father's funeral, was annoyed when Thalmor attempted to kill him during the funeral. So were the SAS squad that had been following him from Earth-2. This caused some friction between Earth-2's United Kingdom and United States.

The Thalmor were probably also annoyed by the failure of their mission, but soon they were embroiled in problems back home. All these high profile failures were having a negative effect on their power base, and while it took a few decades, eventually they were thrown from power. And replaced with some equally idiot lot, no doubt.

Nobody knows what killed Gilderoy Lockheart, when, or where. All that is known is that he already had the title for his next book, Travels in Tamriel, worked out. According to Ra'jirra, "the dork probably walked right up to some ruin full of conjurers or corpse-humpers, this side of Cyrodiil's full of 'em."

Ida Ottus would have made her forebear, Alessia, proud. Her series of condemnatory rants against 'modernisation' spurred debate and, much to her dismay, an increased uptake of the bicycle.

The magical and mundane worlds of Earth-2 finally merged with only a few hitches, and by the 2040s it was through the relatively new discipline of technomancy that Yukon 1 finally landed people on Mars.

By the 2070s, terraforming efforts on Venus were underway, thanks to intrepid crews pulling a fairly large earth-crosser into a capture orbit about that planet.

Those last two paragraphs are something of a plot bunny of mine; Brooms Over Mare Tranquilitatis or some such.

Oh, that'll do – there's your damned epilogue. As you can see, my bad decision to seat this in the Ra'jirraverse meant that this story threatened to sequel into A Tale of Three Worlds, far beyond the original intended scope of a fun romp.

Have a Bonus! Cut Scene Omake!

This was intended for when the Ministry were making unhappy noises about the "colonial invasion" or some such rubbish, until I realised it was unnecessary. Just one more excess plotline to muddy the story.

Subsequently, in the Pentagonal Office, Magical Congress of the United States of America:

"Well," Herb Snout was more relaxed than earlier that morning, "what Corny had to say was a lot of bluster and bullshit. 'Why are you invading us', crap like that. Seems to me they weren't paying attention to who's coming into Britain as opposed to going out. Well, until today," he nodded at the copy of The Daily Prophet that was resting on the President's desk.

Laurence Harvey Quahog pressed his temples, feeling a headache coming on that he hadn't had since he first became Magical President back in '77. The Progressives had won by a landslide, but it wasn't until the Magical Intelligence Bureau had given him his first briefing that he understood why.

He didn't like Limey – a derogatory term for the British magical community that would probably haunt him until the grave, thanks to a slip of the tongue. The fact that several American nationals had been casualties of Death Eater attacks – and that the British hadn't bothered to inform them – only reinforced his dim view of a group that still referred to the USA as 'the colonies'.

The MIB had also countered and neutralised several attempts by Death Eaters to form a power base on American soil. Along with the Death Eater casualties, the Preservative party had taken a severe blow when family members of several of their senators had been revealed as assisting them. The results had shown at the polls, and the Preservatives were only now beginning to show signs of being taken seriously again.

He blinked rapidly, trying to stop himself thinking about politics.

That in 1981 the lead terrorist had somehow been killed at the hand of a baby made no sense to him. The following panic over the 'Boy-Who-Lived' disappearing off the face of the earth hadn't helped his low opinion of Limey. And of the inept, almost Get Smart style antics of the investigators the British sent onto American soil, the less said the better.

Ignorance of the nonmagical, ridiculous notions about bloodlines – that's what Preservative cant got you.

His first meeting with the nonmagical President George Bush in 1989 had been a cordial affair; we'll keep our house in order if you keep yours, something like that. Laurence thought George's observation that he looked like a caricature of Teddy Roosevelt, with a thick salt-and-pepper beard, was amusing.

That had changed in June as wizards from China had begun to inundate magical immigration, seeking asylum in the wake of the Communists' crackdown following the pro-democracy protests. There were quite a few, and they all wanted to bring their families along, and that meant they needed to be inducted as US citizens and found places to live, while keeping the Statute of Secrecy intact in case some snoop noticed discrepancies between flight manifests and immigration statistics.

And now, with the Gulf War and its refugee problem winding up, not only had Harry Potter returned, but he'd brought along a whole mess of headaches for him to worry about.

"Are they likely to actively interfere with us… ah… researching the portals?" He already had a basic plan drawn up for Operation Provide Comfort III, except that materials and men wouldn't be going to Iraq this time. However, they needed their own portal in order to carry it out. And that was why seventeen researchers had passed through Britain into Tamriel, where they were currently gingerly probing the portal in much the same way as EOD technicians.

"They better damn not," Laurence growled, his Georgia accent thickened with irritation. There was a reason Herb Snout liased with Britain.

"Don't think so," and Herb smiled. "In fact, I asked the Minister if he had his own… oh yeah, Unspeakables… looking over these portals of theirs. He said yes, but I don't think he really knows."

Consecutively:

"Actually, we haven't the people available," Croaker declared.

Not for the first time, Fudge wished the Unspeakables didn't wear those creepy enchanted cloaks that made it impossible to determine the speaker's face, voice, or even gender. There was a small betting pool on whether the Head Unspeakable was a he or a she. Some wag had money on Croaker being a goblin.

"All of the Unspeakables are busy on other projects," Croaker went on. "If we're going to look at these portals, we need more recruits and more funding."

Fudge's face fell at the implied demand. "Are you sure some of those projects… are they really that important? Can't they just… wait for a bit?"

"Not unless you want the world to end."

Fudge almost laughed, but the cloak didn't hide the deadly serious tone of the Head Unspeakable.

The morals of this story:

Don't post at once; block out what happens first. Look at the scope. Focus without mercy. Kill your plot bunnies.